blonde
by damnnn lolita
Summary: [Yaoi SasuxNaru] Never judge a blonde by his bottle. An AU.club.drug-use.cross-dressing.SasuNaru one-shot. Sigh...


[note]: I don't own any of the Naruto boys and I'm stating that fact at the get-go, so you can't sue me.

[warning]: Yaoi; don't read it if you don't like that kind of stuff.

[extended summary]: An AU/club/drug use/cross-dressing/SasuNaru one-shot to appease my deep, dark, stereotypical likes. It's been a while since I wrote anything so I wanted to stay within the bounds of a safe, well-known territory. A pathetic lemon. Enjoy.

* * *

"blonde"

by lolita

* * *

He had a thing for blondes.

Didn't get one often enough, sadly.

Didn't get _that_ one. The better one. The best one.

The blonde hooked him harder that anything he'd put in his vein-drains or his hole-heart, both grimy, deep, hidden places that sucked in everything for better or worse. Caught a dobe in their claws and wanted to peck at his eyes and eat his flesh to the bone and cradle his soft head in their razor wings until sunrise sent them sulking off to hide. The idiot even overtook his violent sibling rivalry, pushing the dull-throb death of kin down to second place on the list.

It would be just like that selfish punk to rob him of his reason to live.

Take away blood and replace it with blonde.

Of course, it could have been because of his brother's own obsession for the same blonde that drove this desire, but he half doubted it. He knew that moron longer, closer, deeper than his _precious_ big brother. The blonde fought back but watched his back and he wanted to desperately claim that backside, thank that backside, take that backside, despite what big brother said, wanted, did.

Probably never would though, so he'd fill the void with whatever he could get, call out the wrong name at the right moment, never see the bitch again, and repeat the next night, weekend, month, year.

That would be the plan, except he picked all the wrong places to find a fair-haired scapegoat.

Nights, places, drinks, and drugs like this brought few of them out; only the raven-dark children of the night desperately sunk themselves into this self-destructive, self-induced, self-centered miasma. Silly Caucasian boys and girls who pour black dye/die over their mousy, suburbanite roots to hide the fact that nothing and everything went oh-so-horribly wrong in their world from birth on.

Silliness.

Not like he should judge, indulging in this sinfully fulfilling lifestyle, lounging about the black velvet cabins of this particular train of thought with the rest of the Goths and the vampires and the freaks and the pleasure-pain He-Shes of the night.

It tasted so good, the bitter pill of haughty irony that stuck in his throat and needed a shot of self-deception to wash it down; he had every right to hate, to be evil and violent and dismal as the others desperately wanted and were in these dens of depression he haunted.

And he was too, really.

He'd die before admitting it though.

Just keep on going along, superiority complex keeping him a head above the rest of the sucking, dragging, drowning ocean of immature ingrates. Posers. Liars. Cheats and thieves.

_Nothing and everything like me_, his heart would grumble and growl to deaf, drug-hazed ears.

He never could hear anything over the music in these places.

The throb of the sound and the alcohol in his stomach seemed to kill his buzz tonight, that and a lack of luscious blonde goats for three weeks straight. Fingering his silver not-so secret keeper hanging about his neck, he made his way to the men's room.

The harsh naked-bulb light of the filthy toilet almost forced him back out into the smoky din, the heat of the dancers and the sin seeming to follow everyone in here without ever managing to make it back out. Slow hand groped behind him for the knob and the exit when his unsteady eyes finally caught up with the room and snagged upon a bright blonde skirt like no other.

The colorful affront to all who moped here stood at the grimy sink reapplying his eye shadow while avoiding the intermittent baby-pink bubbles that snapped and popped from between shimmy, shiny, colored-water lips. Crimson leather laced itself tightly about taught calves, tight thighs, stopping their lust-crazed ascent before reaching the plaid-purple-pleated mini and it's hidden secrets, allowing fuchsia fishnet and lace garter belt to peek out and give him a saucy wink. The fuchsia fishnet also snagged a delicious feast of a torso that he wanted to see flopping on his deck as well; a sheer and particularly hideous, particularly tight orange tank tried and failed to hide the rest of the treat. A thick band of clunky blue beads clung possessively to that slender neck and precise if slightly heavy make-up graced the face he saw in the grimy mirror. To top it all off, the skirt had tied radioactive blonde hair into two puffs at the top-back of his head, charms dangling, clanking, clanging with every subtle shift in stance.

Nose wrinkled at the retched fashion taste and the poor judgment of such a blatant rave-bunny to show his face around here, but he couldn't bring himself to ignore the skirt.

Odd. Usually his senses listened to him.

Sight unwavering, he groped for the flashing silver fan at his neck.

Automated grip and turn and scoop found a pinch of what he really came in here for at his nose, the rest of his body ready for _this_ and nothing else, caring little for inattentive eyes. First bit breathed in deep, returning to his friend that draped lazy, linked arms about his delicate neck, second hit gone. Two more tonight, just two more. Something told him to forget this blonde goat-skirt and fill the sex-void with the sounds of a higher calling.

Standing there, eyes closed and flitting back and forth beneath bat-wing flesh, the world fell into place so fast it almost knocked him off his feet. Breathing deep, catching himself, he opened his own dark eyes to find them caught in a bright blue tractor beam. He almost giggled at the lunacy of the skirt's identity but men-boys don't giggle he told himself.

They just shook and shuddered under the intense gaze of their own desire.

A gun report filled his ears and he flinched as pink expanded and disappeared with a swipe of a tongue (oh gods, what a tongue…) and the skirt smirked, little whisker-scars perking up and laughing along with the inside joke.

"Should have known you'd be into this shit," the skirt remark, finely manicured hands roughly drawing the pendant away from his heaving, cornered-animal-quaking chest. It couldn't be him, it just couldn't. The moron never gave any hint that this, _this_, filled his bag, was his bag.

The vision before him didn't alter his voice or his stance, the skirt's entire being screaming his dobe, in the flesh and make-up and leather and lace. Voice male and humored, taunting and tight. Feet planted firm, no feathery hands or fluttering eyelashes and passes as a real, live girl. He looked up.

No crown.

Not a queen.

Not a…

The vision and the bathroom gone, the dance floor around him, the bodies crushing and crashing, the music drilling into his skin with a hum-buzz-blood sound. A hand in his, not his own, dragging, leading, pulling in tight and close for a breath of Naruto and then back out for a breath of air.

They were dancing, he thought.

Didn't know.

Didn't care.

It was good, real good.

Too good. Too much.

All he could do was close his eyes and hold on. Every time he opened them there _he_ stood, loomed, smirked, laughed. In and out and side to side, then slinking-sliding up and down in ways that made him think of something besides dancing. Naruto seemed to be enjoying himself; he could probably hear all Sasuke's thoughts, driving their nail-headed parade in across his rough-hewn mind. Thoughts of actual appeasement, of wanted dead or alive, of kiss-and-tell each other everything in the sheets and shower and kitchen and alley, of surprise attacks and uneasy truces.

Too good. Too much.

A few words followed by a pop and a taunt in his ear answered his shivers and thoughts. Couldn't tell if it was a question, a proposition, or not. Dizzy head nodded as tizzy fingers found chest and arms and cheeks and cheeks and heat. Smooth flesh stuck lightly on sweaty skin, their caress halting but no less delicious. Sun-kissed blonde shivered and tightened then pulled away leaving only disappointment. The heat had disappeared but lips replaced searching touches, color-water lips flooding sensitive basements unprepared for this kind of a storm. Then the return. A pulse fluttered in a neck, beads caught and cut, he tasted blood and beat all in one go.

Too good, too much.

A new place, a different place now when he opened his eyes. His place. Rides home from work, to work, they told the dobe where he lived but never gave him permission to open the door for him, take off his clothes for him. Maybe he could do it all himself. He didn't need help from hapless, eager blonde hands that wanted to rip away the wrapper and wrap his tongue around the rich candy hidden behind foil and falsehoods. It was his turn to suck down spun sugar Naruto and he _certainly_ didn't need help with that. The moans and groans and murmuring, constant chattering of lust-colored lies and truths and pleading orders, he did that to Naruto all by himself. A smirk that melted into an opened mouth scream and paired release.

Too good, too much.

And so on and so forth.

Sunlight woke him, late afternoon rays tilting in through the windows at the perfect angle to pry aching eyes open. Sasuke sat up in bed, shoving the covers off in a desperate attempt to swat away the thick blankets wrapped around limbs and last night.

He remembered, eyes widening painfully.

Head whipping around, Sasuke searched desperately for his dobe, for signs of what they did. Nothing. No clothes, no mess, no Naruto still sleeping by his side. Sasuke stumbled up and out of bed, trying to find any proof that what he remembered could have been real.

Nothing.

He'd taken too much and pathetically dreamed up Naruto in the place of some stupid goat's face, body, breasts.

What a loser.

A loser who needed some thing to drink before he could make it to work in an hour.

At least he wouldn't have the embarrassment of facing his dobe after a night he thought they had. That would have been too much, especially if Naruto hadn't cared enough to stick around and motorcycle-pool. Sasuke would have loved that, knowing how much the other man hated his bike, how tightly he would have clung to the thin body so close in front of him. How the heat would fight off the wind better than the finest down parka.

Sasuke smirked at the thought and then shook it away with a bitter flick of his aching head.

The kitchen sat where he left it, clean and barren except for the Jack and some old coffee in the pot, all in unabashed and dreadfully plain view. A couple of mugs sat out on the counter, one half full and dejected, the other empty and smirking-mocking with its rouge-colored half-moon mouth turned up on the lip. He couldn't remember having coffee with the goat but he didn't remember much. It had happened before, loss of time, of events. No concern of his, really. Not any more.

Sniffing at the coffee left behind, he could tell it had to have been from last night. Filling the mug up with the dredges moping in the bottom of the carafe, Sasuke set the mug to spinning in his microwave while he uncapped the whiskey. He took a steadying swig, unable to wait for the coffee to cut down its retched, claw-filled taste. Wiping his lips with his hand, Sasuke paused with palm to lips.

He hadn't seen the note tacked on the door before, too intent on settling his nerves and his stomach. Without even putting down the bottle, he ripped the paper from its place, the tack pinging unheeded on the linoleum. Dark eyes scanned the black scribbles and a smile attempted bravely to pull up one side of his mouth.

_Clean yourself up and then we'll talk. You know where to find me tonight._

_Naruto._

Dumb blonde.

His blonde.

And the night sighed as it eased in, obscuring all else until he opened his eyes again.

.end.


End file.
